


Starsight

by Jakowic



Category: The Hollow (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M, New Year's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28029372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakowic/pseuds/Jakowic
Summary: Kai has a thing for stars. The night sky is full of them.
Relationships: Kai/Reeve (The Hollow)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	Starsight

It's one of those things that you only get if you grew up in exactly the same way Reeve did.

Reeve Wlibur Harrison Jr. has his dad's skin, his dad's name, his dad's hands and his crooked smile, but those are the only things Reeve has left of his father. He lives in a two-bedroom apartment with his mother and three younger sisters, all in descending order by height, with two bunkbeds stacked into one room and a roll-out mattress in the second. Their bathroom sink is covered with hair products, soap, lotion, things Reeve can't make heads or tails of, all five of their toothbrushes snuggle together in a cup by the faucet. There is never enough time in the morning for everyone to do their routine or eat their breakfast. It always smells like cooking rice and curry.

He speaks Korean at home because his mom only knows the conversational bits of English, the consonants don't fit in her mouth right and Reeve never wants to make her feel small. She stands a full head shorter than him now, when he'd hit sixteen and it'd like he'd been sprayed with Miracle-Gro overnight, and he didn't stop until he hit six-two at eighteen. She looks at him with eyes that get sadder every day and Reeve knows it's because she can see the echoes of his dad in his face, the curve of his mouth that isn't entirely his, the way his hair grows. But he has her, too, her eyes and her freckles and her laugh, the way she pronounces her vowels. And yet.

When Reeve was five his father was diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer, and the look on his parents' faces told him that this was the kind of thing you don't come back from. Reeve Wilbur Harrison Sr. died when his son was eight years old. He didn't make it to his youngest daughter's second birthday.

They've spent the rest of their lives paying off the medical bills that accumulated from trying to give Wilbur just a few more weeks, an increment of precious time, just five minutes longer to say goodbye.

So, when Reeve tries to explain it to his friends, at any junction where it comes up -- when they invite him somewhere and he _can't,_ or something else equally inconspicuous that makes Reeve's skin crawl -- he only makes it a few words in before he shrugs and smiles ruefully. "You won't- you wouldn't get it."

And when Kai, who arguably is one of Reeve's better friends these days, corners him and starts talking about an astronomy club, Reeve has to fight the urge to bite his head off.

"It's not really my thing."

Kai frowns. "Nothing is your thing, dude. I've been trying to get you to do stuff for _years._ "

Reeve shrugs. "I'm immune to _things._ I hate hobbies. I live, breathe, and bleed late-stage capitalism. I have no aspirations. I am a robot for the working class."

Kai frowns harder, eyebrows drawing down in an adorable impression of a chipmunk. "I've seen you play along to mathletes."

"O-kay," Reeve says, putting his hands in his pockets and turning on his heel. "That's enough talking for today."

He speedwalks away from Kai, who lets him go. If that had been Mira or Adam, he'd have been dogged until they'd fallen off the edge of the earth. Kai is different like that, he treats Reeve's friendship like it's about to be revoked, like his attention and kindness is a precious commodity. Part of Reeve likes that, another part of him hates himself for it.

When he gets home, Lolly is already at her after school job. Amy and Ha-Neul are young enough to still indulge in homework and clubs, but Reeve and Lolly lost that luxury the moment a debt-collector showed up at the wake of his father's funeral.

He takes enough time to check in on his mom, cracking open her bedroom door and listening to the sound of her breathing, slow and heavy-deep, the sound of someone who desperately needs to sleep. He gives the girls some spam and rice from the fridge and promises that he'll bring home whatever's left after his shift ends.

Reeve works at a sushi restaurant. It's not as luxurious as it sounds, seriously. He got the job after bouncing around a couple of others for years, and they hired him because he looked like he could lift heavy boxes with no problem. Reeve's generally anti-social and clumsily rude, so customer service jobs are harder for Reeve to pick up than an STD. But he's been working since he was fourteen and could just barely skate around child labor laws (whoever made those must've forgot about poor folks somewhere along the way, folks that need every helping hand they can get) and he's been working twelve, fourteen hours a crack, getting paid all in cash just to help his mom and Lolly make ends meet.

So, yes, Reeve doesn't have time for hobbies, or aimless staring at the stars, because he's got more important things to do.

It's one of those things you don't really get unless you were raised in exactly the same way he was.

\- 

His hands are dry and cracking when he finally peels off his gloves and gives Jim a tired smile. Jim grunts at him, not in an unfriendly way, and gestures to the big grey bin that holds all the silverware so Reeve doesn't forget it. He hefts the big bin onto his hip and goes out to the dining floor.

Jim, Keiko, and Akihiro are the last to leave every night. Jim is a line cook who's tentatively started to teach Reeve how to make some of the easiest dishes they serve. Reeve appreciates it a lot. Keiko and Akihiro have been married for who knows how long, and come in every day at three p.m. for the night shift together. Keiko waits tables and Akihiro makes the sushi.

The neon lights that make the front of the Blue Whale Diner glow go off one, by one, by one, Keiko's spindly fingers pausing in between each switch so she doesn't blow a fuse. Akihiro is still prepping tomorrow's fish, her knife banging rhythmically against the cutting board, the sound of flesh neatly coming undone under her skillful hands. Keiko has only turned off half of the lights on the floor, so the lowlight is warm, yellow, and comforting. 

Reeve begins to set the silverware for tomorrow, the overloud clinking of cutlery is disruptive and out of place - even Akihiro's knife blends into the silent ambiance of the closed and quiet Blue Whale. Working the night shift so often, it seems like Reeve would get used to it, but he won't ever get used to the way everything just _shuts off_ at night, especially in December. Silence falls like a weight as soon as the last customer leaves, and for the life of him Reeve can't quite inhale it the way his coworkers do.

He spends all of his shift in the kitchen, the clanking of dishes covering the 80s Japanese rock Keiko plays all day but now they're all stacked and cozy on the drying rack, Reeve can hear the gentle strum of it. Keiko is sitting on a stool at the bar, absently watching her wife prep tomorrow's line, humming softly to the song on the radio.

Reeve finishes setting out the silverware and goes back into the kitchen.

He takes the fish that's almost expired and saves it from the dumpster, packing it in to-go cartons and bagging the cartons in plastic. He and Jim finish up cleaning the kitchen in silence. Jim speaks Chinese, the Tanakas speak Japanese, and the only common language between the four of them is English, but after a long day Jim will only grunt or speak his native language. Reeve gets it, kind of.

All he has on him are his jacket, his iPod, his headphones, and a bag bursting to full with smelly old fish. He says bye on his way out - the overloud sound of it makes him cringe, his voice like a lone gunshot on a silent morning, the _Footloose_ cop flashing in his mind briefly ("You're disrupting the peace!"), and the awkward, tinny tinkle of the welcome bell as he shoves open the door with his shoulder.

"Bye!" they all chorus, a startled beat too late, and the door shuts solidly on him before he can wave or react.

He plugs in his headphones, starts up his one and most listened to playlist, and heads to his bus stop.

Ten p.m. darkness always makes Reeve feel... rather lonely. Like the impossible unseen unknown could swallow his heartbeat if he so much as exhales wrong, like out there, hidden away, is everything and nothing all at once. He stands there for ten minutes, then the bus pulls up, rickety swaying like a beast that's about to lay down and sleep for a century, bright lights on the dead, dark Seattle street.

Reeve climbs aboard, and the driver doesn't wait for him to sit to start driving, so he doesn't, just grabs a pole and holds on tight, smelly fish bag banging against his knees.

The thing about public transport is - that it smells. Not overly, not even very noticeably, but it smells like every handprint, footprint, impression of a person that's ever spent a moment inside. Like the air the bus holds takes some of your essence, like you've been saved for the next ride across town. The second thing is that it's cold. Always. You can't take your jacket off, even in the summer (and why would you want to? It's not like cities foster wellness and prevent robbery), and it makes you wish you'd brought gloves for the bus ride alone. The third thing is that it's _loud._ Seriously loud. You can hear it through your headphones loud, you can feel the physical proof of noise through the soles of your boots loud.

He watches rural Seattle go by - the outskirts of the city that barely count as the city, King County almost 


End file.
